It can get lonely carrying on with this job that most people think I must be a “little strange” to be doing. “You’re a hospice chaplain? Isn’t that morbid to be doing that?” Someone felt my going so far as to write a book about it was downright peculiar and distasteful. But with my front-row seat at Act Three Scene Three of people’s lives, I keep getting intimate glimpses of what hospice patients are pondering, remembering, laughing about, and caring about. When I come home to dinner, my husband loves to hear all the interesting encounters I have. One day, one story was about a Puerto Rican who came to the Continental U.S. to spend his final days because Puerto Rico is “a chaotic mess” from bankruptcy. Another was about a man expressing his disappointment that 40 years ago, even though he won an award for an original poem, he had had been unable to claim it in person. Yet another was about a patient who wanted a croissant and for whom a substitute such as a toasted English muffin from the communal kitchen would not do. (I brought her an honest-to-God sample the next day.)A memoir of loss, memory by memory... To read chapter excerpts, click on chapter titles in the left sidebar. To order Alzheimer's Daughter, click on the picture of book below.
The Story
Alzheimer’s Daughter introduces the reader to my healthy parents, Ed and Ibby, years before their diagnosis, then recounts painful details as our roles reversed and I became my parents’ parent.
Their disease started as translucent, confused thoughts and ended in a locked memory care unit after a near decade of descent into the opaque world of Alzheimer's.
I began writing Alzheimer’s Daughter one week after my mother's death––when I was stunned, realizing Dad had no memory of her or their 66-year marriage.
I write to pay tribute to the undying spirit at Ed and Ibby's core, and with the hope that the story of their parallel decline might be helpful to others.
Tuesday, August 2, 2016
Meet Karen Kaplan, author of Encountering the Edge: What People Told Me Before They Died
It can get lonely carrying on with this job that most people think I must be a “little strange” to be doing. “You’re a hospice chaplain? Isn’t that morbid to be doing that?” Someone felt my going so far as to write a book about it was downright peculiar and distasteful. But with my front-row seat at Act Three Scene Three of people’s lives, I keep getting intimate glimpses of what hospice patients are pondering, remembering, laughing about, and caring about. When I come home to dinner, my husband loves to hear all the interesting encounters I have. One day, one story was about a Puerto Rican who came to the Continental U.S. to spend his final days because Puerto Rico is “a chaotic mess” from bankruptcy. Another was about a man expressing his disappointment that 40 years ago, even though he won an award for an original poem, he had had been unable to claim it in person. Yet another was about a patient who wanted a croissant and for whom a substitute such as a toasted English muffin from the communal kitchen would not do. (I brought her an honest-to-God sample the next day.)

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